


Let me ease thy sorrow

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Depressed Maedhros, Feanorincest, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Restraints, Rough Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, after the fucking Nirnaeth worse than ever, post-Thangorodrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and Fingon's death Maedhros' depression gets worse over the following months until Maglor deems unusual measures necessary.</b><br/>(Based on the following plotbunny dialogue that hit me hard one night. "What did Findekáno do to lull you into slumber?" <i>'Nothing that is of your concern'</i> [..] <i>'Pleasured me, with his mouth.'</i> "Would you allow me to do the same?")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me ease thy sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> **[Disclaimer]** \- The elves are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.

 

**Let me ease thy sorrow**

*****

 

When Maglor opens the massive door that leads to the room, which easily can be described as the main room of the house, cold air embraces him. Not yet winter it is, but the days are already cold enough to send a chill down his body when no fire warms the place, something which is obviously not the case, something which Maedhros has said he would do.

Apparently he hasn’t. That much is certain, although for the _‘why’_ Maglor doesn’t know, because his brother’s words when last he has seen him were: _‘I will take care of it.’_

With a sigh he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

They need to talk. Well – in fact they should have talked about the matter many days ago already.

They haven’t.

That Maedhros was within the room is palpable with every breath he takes as his brother’s unique scent tickles his nostrils, was already when the door creaked open.

Maglor’s gaze shifts from the rain-stained windows towards the marble hearth at the far end of the room which is filled with ashes only instead of a warming fire; involuntarily he sighs but not out of malice or anger, especially not when his eyes fall onto his brother who sits cowering on the chaise longue in front of the cold hearth. Nothing more than a light tunic Maedhros wears, Maglor notices, eyes strangely unfocused as if he is completely detached from the world he is in, skin pale, almost ashen and life-less. Of course, Maedhros shivers – no wonder given the freezing temperatures and delicate garments, but he does not seem to notice his miserable state nor does he notice his brother.

Most likely he has not even heard him coming.

Maglor clears his throat to announce his presence but Maedhros remains still like one of the marble statues down in the colonnade.

 

“Russandol. It is cold inside here,” carefully Maglor tries to startle his brother out from where he is hiding the moment he comes to stand beside him and sees the true misery is eldest brother is; shaking, quivering, staring into nowhere with dull eyes.

His remark is met with silence.

It is his fault, bitterly Maglor thinks. He is responsible, it always was and not a single day has passed in which he has not blamed himself for Maedhros’ miserable state. He could have saved him, when Fingon could, he could have done so many years before.

But he hasn’t.

Instead, he has sacrificed his brother’s life for _‘the sake of all the Noldor’_.

They all have, but it was him who has been head of the House of Fëanor, regent in Maedhros’ stead then, and it is he who suffers night after night for what he has not done to save him. His other brothers, especially Celegorm and Curufin, seem to be entirely unaffected by the nightmares Maedhros still faces night after night, the past days worse than ever.

“Nelyo,” he says again, this time a little louder, but silent enough not to make him jump out of his seat, “it is cold in this room, bitterly so and you are freezing, shivering almost – and beyond exhausted.” Dark frames grace Maedhros’ eyes, lack of sleep visibly manifested across his skin.

“I haven’t slept” is all Maedhros’ replies.

Well, that much is obvious Maglor adds to himself as he shifts both his gaze and his position towards the fireplace. They need the warmth of the flames, Maedhros above all others. Log after log he stacks, and in between he frowns, tilting his head to look at his brother: “You haven’t slept for how long now? Days?”

Perhaps it has been even longer.

He cannot tell, but it matters not – be it a few days, or even weeks - with such destructive behavior he will severely harm himself, mildly put.

“Possibly.” Maedhros shrugs as if all this is nothing of his concern.

Maglor is patient, he has always been, but too long already has he watched the drama right before his eyes, now unfolding anew. “Nelyo! You need to sleep, otherwise your body will collapse at one point,” he chides upon such a heartbreaking indifference, much louder than he has originally intended to. Instantly, and all the more when Maedhros’ eyes widen in shock, he feels sorry and directs his attention towards the stack of logs again and sets them ablaze.

Behind him he hears the rustling of fabric before his brother’s voice reaches him: “So be it.”

Maglor is at a loss, he truly is; of what to say, of what to do to ease his brother’s sorrows.

Deeply he inhales the characteristic smell of burning fir before he rises from his kneeling position in front of the flickering flames and turns around to sit down at the edge of the place where Maedhros still cowers, knees drawn towards his chest, arms sneaked around them. Misery incarnated, Maglor thinks as he regards him with a pitiful expression.

“Maitimo,” he then says, much softer than his previous words have been, and takes his brother’s hand into his own, “you, as good as I, know that you are destroying yourself with everything you do. There are draughts which help to find at least a little ease in sleep.”

He looks worse than Maglor has assumed.

“Káno,” Maedhros replies, his words barely audibly as if he is ashamed to speak of what troubles him so much, “herbal draught or not - I simply cannot. As soon as I close my eyes it is as if I am caught in the darkest of dungeons again, as if I stand on the battlefield, hands covered in blood, all, which are dear to me, dying – the memories haunt me, worse than ever.”

Perhaps not worse than ever, Maglor says in silence, but for the first time Maedhros feels as if he is truly alone, nobody there to ease his troubles, to share his pain and sorrows. Until a few months ago it has been Fingon, their cousin, who has always managed to tear Maedhros out of his misery, at least partly and momentarily. Fingolfin’s eldest son was the beacon in the darkest of Maedhros’ nights, the straw his brother clung to when wave after wave of sordid horror washed over him.

Fingon was no more.

 

A heavy silence falls between them, both caught in their very own thoughts and Maglor doubts that what they think only is remotely similar. Without Maedhros realizing it, he etches closer and closer still, until he crosses his arms upon his brother’s knees and lays down his head.

Startled from his musing, Maedhros almost flinches.

Maglor knows he should not say it, he knows that he should not even think it, but nevertheless he does, and it is not the first time that these inappropriate thoughts waft through his mind, all the more when the golden shadows of the flames catch themselves in the coppery strands of Maedhros’ hair.

Intensely Maglor watches him, before he asks: “What did he do?”

For the first time since his arrival, Maedhros truly stirs in his seat and regards him with tired eyes. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Well …” he begins, he who usually is so eloquent finds himself struggling to phrase what occupies his mind, “it is not the first time that you suffer as you do now, yet never before have I seen you so depressed. Never before haven’t you slept for so many days.”

Well aware of the fact he is that Fingon’s death in the god-forsaken Nirnaeth Arnoediad only added another wound to the already countless ones of his brother, and so befitting the name of the slaughter is; battle of unnumbered tears – and countless indeed are the tears they all have shed in the aftermath, Maedhros especially.

“Perhaps,” responds Maedhros weekly, “I do not know.”

Maglor does not believe his words.

“Nelyo!” An exaggerated sigh slips across his lips, “what did Findekáno do to lull you into slumber?” he asks. Dangerous ground it is he is threading on, Maglor knows, and inwardly he prepares to face his brother’s wrath, because his temper rose and ebbed like the tidal waves.

His inquiry is met with silence.

Another heavy sigh spills over Maglor’s lips.

So stubborn Maedhros is – well, he always has been, but with every year he lives it gets worse and worse still. Usually, and for many now, Maglor has tolerated his brother’s behavior which he often deemed insolent, learnt to deal with it.

Briefly, Maedhros’ eyelids flutter close, Maglor notices before he regards him with disdain. “Nothing of your concern,” at last he says, his voice cold as the howling wind outside.

Well, indeed it is nothing of his concern, it never has been.

“Do you think I do not know what you have done behind closed doors all the years?”

“If you know already then why do you ask?” Maedhros lashes out, but unimpressed Maglor continues: “Wasn’t it me who played the harp to drown out your cries of pleasure before they reached our father and mother? The one who came up with yet another excuse when you have stayed away in the woods many hours too long?”

Upon the warmth spilling from the fire, the trembling of Maedhros’ body has subsided but now he shakes anew, trembling upon the words that hold so many memories. “Káno .. please do not go any further,” Maedhros begs, and the sight he presents is heartbreaking.

Indeed apologetic Maglor feels for what he said. So fragile, so broken his brother is and nothing on earth seems to be existing that could ever cure his misery.

“I won’t - if you tell me what Findekáno did to calm you.”

A heavy silence falls, the calm before the storm Maglor finds himself thinking as he watches the emotions flicker through Maedhros’ eyes. Anger, hatred even, worries and sorrows and so much more he fails to decipher.

“Pleasured me,” Maedhros’ crooks out, lips twitching in disdain. It is obvious just how much the memories hurt as an indescribable sadness veils his marred face, “until I found release, until I found rest in his arms.”

A million ways existed.

Carefully Maglor takes his brothers hand into his own, ice cold it is, of course, almost life-less and not far away he seems to be from the Halls of Awaiting.

“How, Nelyo?” he inquires, feeling a fierce tremor rushing through him. He shouldn’t ask, he simply should not but instead take his leave now that the fire is burning, but he doesn’t and remains as if he is spell-bound.

Maedhros blinks in confusion, at a loss of what to say, his eyes regarding him as if he asks in silence: _‘Why must you know? Must you tear the wounds open anew?’_

“With .. with his mouths.” The words are barely there, barely audibly and it nearly is as if Maedhros is ashamed of what he says. “Since my return that is all I ever managed to tolerate.”

They have never spoken about such matters before, at least not since they all have left the Blessed Realm behind, but this seems to be the answer to all his riddles, why no draught made by any healer helped to calm down his brother.

Before he can process what exactly his brother’s words mean, what bitter truth they reveal, he speaks. “Would you .. allow me to do the same?” he hears himself asking with such nonchalance that he is genuinely surprised; he doesn’t quite believe that he truly said this aloud.

Maedhros eyes widen in shock and horror, and anger flickers through them. “Have you lost all your wits?” he thunders, and wouldn’t it have been for Maglor blocking his way, certainly Maedhros would spring to his feet, but so he remains as he is. “You are my brother,” he chides in such a dismissive tone that Maglor’s own emotions flare.

“What of it?” he snaps in response. Gods this is so wrong, utterly so, yet he feels his heart pounding against his chest, feels his hands tremble, and something treacherous further down.

“Truly you cannot be sincere – you, as good as I, know what you suggest is frowned upon, forbidden by the laws of old. It is sin to indulge into such acts between kin so close. You are my brother, Káno.” He repeats, calmer now, but his eyes still glitter dangerously in the light of the flames.

“Brother. Cousin. Oathsayers. Kinslayers. What does it matter at the end of all things?”

“Condemned we are already,” Maedhros affirms, holding his gaze, “but what you suggest is wrong as anything can ever be.”

“So be it; I do not care. All that matters is that you calm down, relax at least at little, that your sadness is chased away for a brief moment.” All that matters is that you survive, Maglor keeps telling himself, a gesture of comfort it is what he offers, nothing more, certainly nothing he has dreamt of before. A lie. Well, not exactly - it is both.

“Káno,” weakly Maedhros now responds, something reeling behind his grey eyes. When words fail, actions are required - without giving his idea another thought, Maglor drops to his knees and settles between his brothers parted legs, hands trailing upwards to fumble with the lacings of Maedhros’ breeches.

That Maedhros is still conflicted as anything can ever be is evident, visibly manifested upon his face as if he asks himself in silence what to say or do, but Maglor remains unimpressed and continues his task. Much to his surprise he finds that beneath the fabric his brother’s cock already begins to harden and a shiver follows his delicate touch. Apparently Maglor is not the only one affected, something that only encourages him. With ease he slips a hand past the waistband and lets his finger trail over the silky skin; he is hot there, not quite hard but constantly getting there beneath his touch, and in response he finds himself growing hard.

Above him, he hears his brother’s breath hitch, and before he can complete what is on his mind, Maedhros’ hand stops his own. “I .. I .. not like this.” at last he explains himself and Maglor regards him with puzzlement as he does not comprehend what exactly he means.

“Rise - and turn around,” Maedhros says in an apologetic tone, yet strangely demanding.

Still Maglor doesn’t understand, none of it, yet he obliges and does as he is told, amazed that he shall truly have succeeded.

Maedhros fumbles with the end of his braid, apparently removing the leather band Maglor has used for tying it together earlier this day, and he wonders what this is all about. If his brother wishes to see him with loose hair he simply could have told him so, because naturally he would do as he is told. But this is not what is on Maedhros’ mind; before Maglor can think further he feels his left arm being moved towards his back, than his right until his hands meet.

“I am sorry,” Maedhros whispers, heart wrenchingly so, and Maglor feels as if his heart scatters. Carefully and rather loosely but tight enough that he cannot free himself Maedhros wraps the leather string around Maglor’s wrists and secures it with a knot. “This is .. I cannot tolerate to feel anyone’s hand upon my skin, not since ..” His voice trails off. Maglor turns around, dropping to his knees again and looks upwards to catch his brother’s gaze.

“Hush now. It is okay.” Oh how much he wishes to comfort him, more than he ever has, wrap his arms around him, ease his pain – at least a little, no matter what it means, what it requires of him.

Maedhros drops his gaze and mutters yet another apology. “It is okay if you renounce your offer,” he adds once he caught his composure, “I understand.”

“No,” Maglor says with a determination of which he does not know where it came from.

Aye, admittedly at first he was startled when Maedhros tied his hands together behind his back, but given what his brother had to endure during his captivity only understandably his behavior is.

The insights of what truly has happened in Angband have been vague at best over all the years, but for Maglor the notions have been sufficient enough to draw his own conclusions.

As Maedhros does not do anything apart from regarding him with wide eyes, he shifts his position and brings his mouth to the lacings of his brother’s breeches, taking the twine between his teeth and pulls on it, futilely so.

“Sorry,” Maedhros apologizes when realization hits him and finally he reaches down to assist him. Briefly Maglor feels him hesitating when his fingertips linger a second too long on his lips before he fidgets with the lacings until his erection is finally freed.

“You do not have to,” Maedhros says again as he withdraws his hand from his crotch.

“No, I do not have to, but I do want to.” Maglor responds as he bends down his head closer towards that he has desired for so long. Despite the shift of position he holds his brother’s gaze and looks up at him under his long, thick lashes. Maedhros watches him in a mixture of anticipation and endless worry, but he remains quiet when Maglor bridges the last remaining inch until his lips encircle his brother’s erection.

With the attempt of a smile, Maedhros runs an appreciative finger along his jaw, down the line of his neck where his tunic gave way to pale skin. Despite its innocence, Maglor finds the touch maddening and arousing alike, and he lowers his head a bit further, letting Maedhros’ half-hard erection slip inside his mouth.

Aye it has been a while for him when last he has indulged into such follies, but it is apparent that he has not forgotten anything in all the years, as Maedhros’ response to the caress affirms. With an exaggerated sigh he falls back into the cushions, and finally the tension flees his exhausted body although his eyes still speak of sadness.

Gently Maglor traces the tip of his erection with his tongue, so careful as if the illusion is threatened to disappear if he just dares not to be; he tries to focus on what he is doing but finds it hard as intensely Maedhros regards him as if he searches for a sign of disapproval. There’s none to be found as he enjoys what he is doing, perhaps too much already and despite the fact that his restraint hands still feel slightly odd; not uncomfortably, or even painful, but usually Maglor cherishes close contact above all else. Already he finds himself desiring to touch, to caress what he cannot, and involuntarily his mind trails off.

 _‘Such a wondrous mouth you have,’_ somebody once has said after one of his performances in Tirion, and now fleetingly the words return to him as he kneels before his elder brother, and the chuckle around Maedhros’ cock which escapes him upon the ambiguity of the words sends a jolt through his brother, he notices with delight.

Soon he finds his head moving up and down steadily with his tongue brushing against the vein on its back, sucking, kissing, both at once until he manages to pull a moan from Maedhros’ lips and his taut, lean muscles flex in response; apart from this, Maedhros’ composure is still stoic as if he is afraid to let go completely.

Maglor increases his efforts, and another moan is his instant reward when he hollows his cheeks again, black strands of hair clinging to his neck and face already.

He knows he should chase the thoughts out of his mind the moment they seek entrance, but he doesn’t; Maedhros eyes are partly closed now and his head fallen backwards, breath uneven and ragged. Gods, he is beautiful in the soft and golden light of the flames, Maglor thinks, but at the same time he wonders if in his inner mind he pretends it is their cousin who kneels before him. Not so differently they have looked throughout all the ages, Maglor knows, long dark hair, cascading down over broad shoulders, thick lashes and keen eyes which are now obediently directed upwards. Of course he wishes that it is him who Maedhros truly sees, Kanafinwë Makalaurë, the one who has accompanied him nearly his entire life. His sibling who imagines and pretends it is his older brother’s hand when he touches himself late at night when all is silent, who has often found himself on his knees before Maedhros, at least in his dreams and reveries.

Although Maglor cannot touch himself he feels his cock grow hard against his breeches from the sight Maedhros presents, forehead glistening in the light of the fire, eyes closed in bliss for the moment. Beautiful he is, a different form of beauty, aye, but beautiful nevertheless with his cheeks flaming crimson upon the constant caress bestowed to his erection.

Soon Maglor finds himself floating in a surreal world that only consists of lewd sounds, silent moans and breathy whimpers that spur him on, subtle notions upon which he shifts his position yet again, rising to his knees. The angle his head now rests between Maedhros parted legs is better for what he plans, perhaps planned all along - given that his brother allows it. Sharply he inhales then before he lets his mouth wander down to take as much as he can. He swallows around Maedhros’ cock which nearly hits against the back of his throat, and when his brother gasps, he does it again with a faint smile. Maedhros heavy breathing fills the background, drowning the silence that clings to the room they are in, and in response, Maglor feels his breeches become distinctly too tight and damp, notices how a mélange of saliva and pre-cum drips down his lips, his chin.

In a fast rhythm he lifts and lowers his head, sucking hard until he feels his lips burning and his cheeks hollow and aching upon the strength.

Until then, Maedhros was rather passive but when he tries to swallow as much as he can without gagging, he feels his brother’s hand thread into his hair and a lewd moan escapes him in response.

Maglor’s breathing is shallow now, as Maedhros’ is, and with effort he swallows down his brother’s cock again until the head of it hits the back of his throat. For the first time, Maedhros moans his name in a way he has never heard it before, a sound that sets the tiny hair on his back to stand on edge. It makes him shudder and tense in response, and he is certain that he has not heard anything more beautiful in his entire life.

 _‘Obscene,’_ Maglor thinks as he withdraws for seconds, only to repeat his actions. Through his eyelashes he looks upwards and catches Maedhros’ wrecked expression, eyes gleaming, mouth parted, tiny pearls of sweat catching themselves upon his brow. What comes across his brother’s lips sounds almost as if he is crying, but he isn’t as his eyes are dry but intensely he watches him as if he desires to lock the image of his younger brother kneeling right before him in his memory forever.

Maglor knows that he is drooling, that saliva trickles down onto his tunic but he cannot bring himself to care at the slightest; glorious he feels, floating, soaring high up in the sky, and all that matters is to numb Maedhros’ guilt and his sadness, chase it away if only for the briefest of moments.

Given the jerk of his hips he is not far away from succeeding, and around his brother’s cock he finds himself smiling.

Fingers tighten in his dark strands as he increases his pace and a giddy feeling threatens to overwhelm him when Maedhros sighs turn to whines above him. He tries to swallow around Maedhros’ cock, take it all down his mouth and throat again, and when he succeeds, nose tightly brushing against the soft skin of his brother’s pelvis the grip against the back of his head is so strong that he struggles to escape the hold.

Yet Maedhros’ expression is worth all the effort, all the chokes and gags he endures.

At one point he briefly managed to withdraw his mouth to properly catch his breath but before he can inhale a second time he finds himself being jerked forward with a strength he has not expect until his lips are tightly stretched around Maedhros’ erection again. Maglor does not mind – quite the contrary, as long as at least for a moment his brother can forget all he had to endure in his life.

Silent tears begin to pool in Maglor’s eyes upon the brute force that holds him down, but it matters not. Obediently, he swallows, hollows his cheeks whilst he gags and coughs, driving Maedhros to the brink of ecstasy with everything he does, sucking, humming, coughing. Never before has he experienced this act as something so – intense, breathtakingly intense, something he has no words for.

He even thinks he could come from the mere looks Maedhros gives him.

“Káno,” Maedhros whimpers above him, whilst his own breathing comes quick and sharp and ragged “please,” but then words are drowned by a string of moans and Maglor feels his brother’s body tense.

With a last groan, Maedhros comes, his hips arching as he loses himself in the bliss of orgasm and spills down his brother’s throat. Again, Maglor gags with tears now streaming down his flushed cheeks because Maedhros digs his nails into his scalp, pressing him close, and closer still and does not even think about to pull out until he’s utterly spent.

Maedhros in the throes is a delight to watch, Maglor finds himself musing when he swallows down even the last droplet (not that he had many alternatives, though) until his brother’s muscles go weak with release and he finally lets go of him. Breathlessly, he gazes upwards, reveling in the beauty of the moment because for the first time in many years and despite the scars that adorn Maedhros skin his face seems to be free of worry and he is the young elf again whom half of Tirion had admired, glowing red hair and high cheekbones, skin fair and pale like marble.

 

*

For many moments Maglor does exactly nothing apart from reveling in the bliss of the moment when Maedhros rides the last waves of climax, catching his breath. How he wishes to wrap his arms around him, he muses, but then, all of a sudden his brother’s expression transforms from bliss towards something darker, worrisome. Before Maglor can comprehend what is happening, tears stream down Maedhros’ crimson cheeks and fell sobs break the silence. The sight he presents is heart wrenching – and so much he desires to pull him close and let his hands wander through the shortened hair until his brother’s sobbing subsides but he cannot with his arms still bound behind his back.

“I am sorry, so sorry,” so lost Maedhros seems to be in his own world of pain and pleasure that it does not occur to him to remove the string around his wrists. “I am so sorry,” he repeats.

Maglor does not even know for what he does apologize.

For coming in his mouth? For indulging in what they have done?

“Thank you,” Maglor breathes as he rises to his feet, lips still laced with saliva and droplets of cum, his brother’s taste still lingering heavily on his tongue. With a smile he leans in and kisses him gently on the mouth, and he means every word he says. “Do not apologize for something I was offering freely, but please – I beg you – have the courtesy to untie my hands.”

“Of course,” Maedhros says shortly after their lips part, apologetic that he didn’t not think about it himself. “I am …” he tries to add, but his brother cuts him off once his arms and hands are free again.

“No,” Maglor shakes his head, and brings his arms around his brother’s neck, “do not apologize again but kiss me instead, will you?”

With little hesitation Maedhros tilts his head and allows his eyelids to flutter close before he leans in until his lips cover Maglor’s who seems to melt upon the chaste caress.

“Oh Nelyo,” he whispers as he finally sits down beside him and pulls him close, “I am here for you; I always was and I always will, never forget that. Please?”

Maedhros merely nods before he buries his face against his brother’s shoulder, still unable to hold back the tears from falling, and in response Maglor tangles their fingers together, whispering softly: “I will be there for you until the very end.”


End file.
